Playing the Game
by iridescentglow
Summary: It's Sophomore year and Jude and Connor now inhabit opposite ends of the social spectrum. How did they end up here and what does the future hold for them? (Alternative summary: Three years, measured mostly in party games and stolen kisses.) *Complete*
1. Chapter 1

**Warnings:** Later chapters of this story contain emotional abuse by Connor's parents (not described explicitly, but in the background), underage drinking/abuse of alcohol, and slight embarrassment squick (since we're talking party games).

Thank you to fosters-fanatic for beta-reading.

* * *

**_Tenth grade – present day_**

_Why are we even friends?_, Connor wondered as he watched his mouth move.

Bryce continued to talk – about a girl, about a meal, about a car (delete as appropriate; it's was always about one) – and Connor continued to ignore him, lost in thought as he watched his best friend's mouth spew words.

They were friends because of football in winter, baseball in summer. They were friends because they'd been friends since kindergarten. They were friends because.

They were not – and Connor had been thinking about this fact a lot recently – friends because they actually liked each other.

"Am I right, dude?" Bryce said as he finished up his story.

"Yeah, man," Connor replied on automatic.

Bryce was tall and broad-shouldered, his blond hair buzzed short. He was Anchor Beach's QB, which didn't really mean much, because Anchor Beach's football team sucked, but Bryce always acted like he was the number one draft pick.

As the two of them idled in the school corridor, Bryce launched into another diatribe – about pussy, steak, or alternators – and Connor allowed his gaze to wander. The corridors were emptying out, as most of the students headed for the cafeteria. But a few clusters of people remained, talking and goofing off in the lull that followed the end of class.

From ten meters away, Connor watched as Jude's face broke into a grin. Over the din of the corridor, Connor couldn't make out the low breath of laughter that must have followed, but he heard it in his head.

Jude was huddled within a mixed group of boys and girls, talking animatedly. He did not – Connor considered this fact grimly – look like the type of person who secretly hated his friends. Of course, Connor did not know for sure, because he and Jude were not friends anymore.

They simply… never made it up.

Their friendship tore that day when Jude told Connor he wouldn't be anyone's secret, and they never mended the rip. On some level, Connor still couldn't entirely comprehend it. Something good would happen and his first thought would still be, "I gotta tell Jude!" He couldn't rewire his brain.

But he'd accepted the fact. They were not. Friends.

Their falling out had revealed too much about them to each other. It had showed Connor to be spineless and Jude to be unforgiving. There was context, of course – the soft, squishy excuses: Connor was put in an impossible position; Jude had good reason not to trust people. But the point stood. Connor was spineless and Jude was unforgiving. It was hard to make it up with someone who was capable of pulling out your worst character traits. So maybe it was better to never even try.

Now, the two of them inhabited opposite ends of the social spectrum. Connor was a jock, a beer hound, a minor womanizer. Jude was a nerd – a _gay_ nerd – vaguely artsy and mostly ignored by everyone except his small circle of similarly nerdy, similarly artsy friends.

The gulf between them was so wide that Connor could barely fathom what their friendship might look like today. If they were still friends, would Connor be standing beside Jude, talking and laughing about poetry or philosophy or whatever the hell it was those art freaks talked about? Or would Jude have been folded into Connor's group of boneheaded jocks, raising his eyebrows laconically at Connor as Bryce ranted on about car parts?

No, more probably, they would have been their own circle of two, just as they'd been in seventh grade.

* * *

**_Seventh grade_**

It was not smart to make friends with the new kid. Connor knew this.

Maybe if the new kid was super-rich, or his parents were rock stars, or he had a pet tarantula that he smuggled into school – then you could make an exception. But not if the new kid was shy and soft-spoken, pale and uninteresting, dogged by talk that his sister just got out of juvie.

It was not smart to make friends with the new kid – but Connor did it anyway.

"Hey, you're Jude, right?" Connor asked as they left math class.

"…Yeah," Jude said slowly, like he had to think about it.

"I'm Connor. I'll show you where we go to eat lunch."

"Okay," said Jude.

Connor made friends with Jude because anything was better than spending another lunch break listening to Bryce and his friends-since-kindergarten talk about nothing.

Later, Connor realized there was a little more to it than that. He also made friends with Jude because it gave him a chance to be a whole new person. Around Jude, he didn't have to be the same version of himself that he'd always been.

* * *

**_Tenth grade – present day_**

Connor was six foot, two inches now. He was handsome (his mom said), a hottie (his dates said). He was a passable athlete, a decent student. He was on track for college. But he was still in kindergarten. Without Jude, he was stuck being the same Connor Stevens he'd always been.

Connor glanced over at Jude once more. He stood close to another guy, talking intently. The other guy turned fractionally and Connor saw that it was Liam Tucker, a school choir geek that Jude had dated for a couple of months. Were they back together? Connor wondered. Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe Jude was just friendly with his exes.

For his part, Connor was not friendly with his exes. When she'd seen him in the corridor yesterday, Maddie had actually _turned and walked the other way_. "You're weird and jealous and possessive, but at the same time, I don't even feel like you _see_ me," Maddie had said to him once, during their doomed relationship. If that was true, he couldn't blame her for hating him.

Connor was brought back to the present moment by Bryce thumping him on the arm.

"My house after school, yeah?" Bryce said. "My mom's making fried chicken. And I'mma own your ass on Call of Duty."

"Yeah," said Connor. "I'll be there."

* * *

_You home yet?_

Connor tapped out the message rapidly as he climbed out of his car. His dumb, red muscle car that Bryce had insisted he spray-paint with a lightning bolt on the hood.

His phone buzzed in his hand with a new message as he walked up the path. The message read:

_Upstairs._

Connor paused at the front door, but he didn't knock. He pushed it and found it unlocked. Brushing past his hesitation, he strode inside. The house was quiet. He remembered it when it had been noisy and overstuffed with kids, but today it was quiet and seemingly empty. His sneakers sounded loud against the wood floors as he walked. He took the stairs two at a time and then forced himself to slow his pace.

The door at the top of the stairs was half-open. Connor slipped across the threshold, easing the door open another inch. He saw that the boy inside the room was arranged comfortably on his bed, stretched out, his back propped up again the pillows. A leather-bound notebook – a journal, perhaps – was open in his lap and he was writing.

He looked up when Connor entered the room, acknowledging his presence. Then he looked down again and continued to write, a rapid scrawl against the page. Connor could almost see the flow of thoughts from his mind. Connor hesitated again, taking a moment to look at the boy, who was still overcome with thoughts. His brow was furrowed in concentration. He was biting his lip.

He was all angles now, Connor reflected. Sharp cheekbones and arched eyebrows and long legs. He still wasn't as tall as Connor, but a growth spurt had pushed him up to five-ten, five-eleven. The slightly awkward, ungainly quality he'd had aged 12 had been ironed smooth over the past four years. The way he held himself was now elegant – although Connor would not have used that word aloud. He was also – the boy's gaze flicked upward again to meet Connor's, briefly, revealing dark, penetrating eyes – _pretty_, which was another word Connor would never, ever say out loud.

He was also _still writing_.

Connor crossed the room in three strides. He placed his knee on the side of the bed, so that the mattress dropped. He stooped low, so that he was level with the still-writing boy. Connor reached out and pulled the pen from the boy's grasp. He tossed it matter-of-factly over his shoulder and it made a satisfying sound as it clattered against the wood floor. The boy gave him a wry smile, visibly irritated, and before Connor could toss away his journal (it was definitely a journal), the boy tucked it out of sight beneath his pillow.

Connor couldn't stand to see the sour, smiling twist of the other boy's mouth, so he leaned in and kissed him hard. The boy took a moment to react, to relax into Connor's kiss. The amusement was wiped from his expression, replaced with a look of wanting. Connor climbed onto the bed and sank down on top of him, pushing the boy down against the pillows with the weight of his body, the urgency of his need. One kiss became several kisses and Connor began to feel that he couldn't stop kissing Jude if he tried.


	2. Chapter 2

**_Tenth grade – present day_**

"Hey, where were you last night?" Bryce asked.

"Hmm?"

Connor wasn't paying attention. Not to Bryce, anyway. At five minutes till the first bell, his eyes wandered the crowded school corridor.

"You were supposed to come over, man," said Bryce.

"Oh, my mom wouldn't let me out," said Connor.

As far as lies went, it was supremely unconvincing. Connor's mom liked it best when it was quiet, and it was quietest of all when he wasn't in the house at all. She'd never, as far as he could recall, stopped him from going out. Bryce, who'd known him since kindergarten, should know that. But Bryce just nodded like he got it. Connor sighed: lying to his friends wasn't even difficult.

Lying to himself was becoming a lot harder, however.

He finally found what he was looking for in the crowd: Jude.

Seeing Jude – even just a flash of him, jostled between classmates on the way to homeroom – brought the memory of last night back to Connor in a rush. The sense memory, of mouths and hands and body-warmth and mental-white-noise, was strong – but stronger still was the memory of their conversation.

"Saw you talking to Liam today," he'd said to Jude, quietly, in a lull between kisses. His limbs were still wrapped around Jude's, their bodies close enough that their hearts seemed to beat with the same rhythm.

"…He's my friend," Jude said slowly.

Connor felt stung by the simple phrase. _He's_ my friend. Translation: you're not. Maybe Jude had meant it to hurt Connor. Or… Connor checked Jude's expression, looking for malice, and found none. No, he realized, it was not a jibe. It was just a fact. And that fact still stung Connor.

"You back together?"

"Why do you care?" Jude asked flatly.

"I... don't," said Connor, with difficulty.

Jude wriggled beneath him on the bed and Connor thought perhaps he was about to push him away. He was only gaining leverage, however. Jude twisted his body around and repositioned his hands so that they were at Connor's waistband. Then Jude thumbed at the button on Connor's jeans – bold in a way that he'd only become recently – and they didn't talk anymore.

In the school corridor, Jude met Connor's gaze for a single second. His face was impassive. Those eyes, so shrewd and expressive, and they looked at Connor like he was a stranger. Jude turned away, slipping through the crowd in the opposite direction. He didn't look back at Connor.

Connor could still remember the exact cadence of Jude's sharp, unequivocal statement, which he'd levelled at him all those years ago. "_I don't wanna be anybody's secret._" The great irony was that they'd ended up at this place anyway. It was just that Jude was not the one hiding – Jude was not Connor's secret.

Connor was Jude's secret.

* * *

**_Eighth grade_**

"No bystanders," snapped Chelsea, as Connor entered the room.

It was Chelsea's End-Of-Summer Blow-Out, to which Connor had received a Facebook invite that came replete with sparkle text and many emojis. So far, the party was not fun enough to have warranted ten smiley faces. Connor would probably rate it a three in terms of smiley faces. Maybe a four. And that was only because Chelsea's brother had bought them beer.

Downstairs, people were playing SingStar with enough enthusiasm to give Connor a headache. Here, upstairs, the mood was more muted. In Chelsea's bedroom, a dozen of Connor's classmates were seated in a circle. Chelsea reached out a hand and tugged at his sleeve, dragging him down into a sitting position beside her.

Connor spilled some of the beer he was holding in the process. He raised his hand to his mouth, sucking off the spillage. He'd heard so much about beer and yet no one had told him that it tasted like ass. He had to wonder: would he grow to like it, or just spend the rest of his life pretending it tasted good? He pulled his thumb from his mouth with a wet, sucking sound, and that was when he caught Jude looking at him from across the circle.

"It's Jude's turn," Chelsea said bossily.

Jude, who looked uneasy, leaned forward and reached for the phone in the center of the circle. He pressed the picture of the bottle and it began to spin.

Connor watched the virtual bottle spin. Round and round and round. As he watched, he felt the inevitability of it all. It would land on him. He knew it. He _felt_ it, like a psychic pull.

The spinner landed 90-degrees away from Connor, pointing at dead space between two girls that he didn't recognize.

"It's not pointing at anyone. Should I spin again?" Jude asked.

"No, it's the person closest," said Chelsea. "That's the rule."

"Just let him spin again," said someone else. Recognizing the voice, Connor looked around and saw Maddie for the first time. His heart did its usual clench-unclench thing when he met her gaze for a moment, before she looked away.

"It has to be pointing at someone," continued Maddie.

Jude hesitated and then leaned forward. He pressed the picture of the bottle once more. The bottle began to spin.

When it stopped, it was pointing at dead space again: the spinner was aimed at the gap between Connor and Chelsea.

"It's not pointing at anyone," Jude said again, and Connor heard the note of desperation in his voice. He intuited suddenly how badly Jude wanted all of this to be over.

"It's the person _closest_—" Chelsea began, but Connor cut in.

"It's me."

He was sick of this whole game already. They'd kiss and it would be over. It wasn't a big deal. They should have kissed all those months ago at Jude's house. It had been worse to not-kiss than it would have been if they'd kissed, Connor had reflected since. It had added to the awkwardness between them and frayed their friendship further.

Connor took a deep breath and leaned forward, into the middle of the circle, waiting for Jude to do the same. One kiss and they could put the awkwardness behind them – maybe even be _friends_ again.

Jude, however, was climbing to his feet. Connor thought perhaps he was leaving, until—

"It's Seven Minutes In Heaven, Connor," Chelsea said, like he was an idiot.

It's...? _Shit_.

Jude wasn't leaving but walking to the door of the open closet. And Connor was expected to follow him.

Connor's feet felt numb all of a sudden. As he got up and crossed the room, he felt like he was going to trip over himself. Maddie was looking at him curiously. _Everyone_ was looking at him. In the end, he stumbled only slightly, at the closet door, and then he was inside – _inside, with Jude_ – and someone had slammed the door shut from the outside.

It was a linen closet, full of sheets and towels, with just enough space for two people to stand upright without touching. Connor knew this because he and Jude were not touching. There was, perhaps, a 30cm gap between them. Connor was pressed against one wall of shelves; Jude was pressed against the other wall; 30cm separated them.

Connor realized his hand still gripped his beer. He put it down on a random shelf and the cup half-fell over, spilling beer onto a pile of neatly-folded peach towels. The smell of beer mingled strangely with the smell of laundry detergent and something else. There was another, familiar smell that, for one dumb moment, Connor couldn't place. Then he realized. It was Jude. Jude's smell.

The closet was lit by a bare bulb, a pull switch hanging down beside it. With the light on, the enclosed space felt too bright – headache-y bright. Connor reached up and pulled the switch, turning it off. That was worse. Without the light, the closet was too dark, lit only by the sliver of light that crept in from the neighboring room. In the dark, the enclosed space felt… _enclosed_. Like a space short on oxygen. _Intimate_, somehow. Quickly, Connor reached up and pulled the switch, turning the light back on. He and Jude blinked against the glare, each scrupulously avoiding meeting the other's eye.

There was a long silence.

"So I guess we have to kiss," said Connor.

"Why?" came Jude's reply.

"'Cause it's a game. That's, like, the rules."

"Those rules don't mean anything," said Jude. "A lot of rules don't mean anything."

_Oh, god_. The only thing worse than spending seven minutes kissing Jude was spending seven minutes _talking_ to Jude. To have to look him in the eye. To have to come up with responses to his snippy comments. To have to think about why they weren't friends.

There was another silence and Connor groped for something to say. But Jude spoke up again.

"I don't think I want my first kiss to be in a game," Jude said. "I think I want it to mean something. I want it to be something I remember. Think about. In a good way. Kind of like the first time I saw snow."

Connor's first kiss had been aged nine, with a girl he'd met at a resort in Cabo, during their last, awful vacation as a family, before his parents divorced. He remembered being poolside with the girl, swimming and splashing and playing. Their parents drank cocktails and lay on lounge chairs, looking over at them every now and again – more and more infrequently as the day wore on and the cocktails were refilled.

Connor remembered waiting until his mom and dad were watching before he leaned in and kissed the girl. He kissed her and everyone watched. He did it _because_ everyone was watching; because kissing was something he'd heard so much about and because he wanted to try it. He didn't even remember the girl's name.

Connor had tossed away his first kiss and, for the first time, he felt regret at that fact. Jude didn't toss anything away – not literally, not figuratively. That was the thing about Jude. All he had were memories, so he made sure to treasure each good one.

"Why can't we just be friends again?" Connor blurted out.

He heard the pathetic note in his voice, but he didn't care. He meant it. He wanted to be Jude's friend again.

"Because I can't trust you."

It was a flat statement, impossible to argue with. Connor expected him to say more, to begin rehashing their last fight, but—no. Jude was done. That was the full story; the long and short of it.

There was another silence – torturous, with a texture like itchy wool – and then there was a thump against wood, followed by jeering from the other side of the door.

"It's Seven Minutes In Heaven," persisted Connor. "We're supposed to kiss."

"I told you I don't want to," said Jude.

"I think you're just scared."

Jude's face flushed. He didn't say anything.

"You're scared because you've never been kissed," said Connor.

He was aware that he was goading Jude and he didn't even know why. He was goading Jude and, what's more, it was working. Jude's brow was furrowed, his jaw was set. He looked mad and—and—vulnerable. Like a crab flipped over on its back.

Connor wondered, _Am I really like this – manipulative, sly?_ He'd watched the way his mother's "sickness" ebbed and flowed, not according to any logic, but according to developments in her ex-husband's life. His dad would find a new girlfriend and, like clockwork, his mom would get sicker, demanding his dad come to her bedside. Manipulative. Sly. Greedy for any affection – whether it was given willingly or snatched at with goading and lies.

Jude reached up and turned off the light in the closet, plunging them into darkness. For a moment, Connor thought he'd misjudged him. He thought Jude was going to open the closet door and leave.

Then he felt Jude's hand grip his shoulder. In the dark, Connor couldn't see him clearly. He could only feel him, warm – _so warm_ – pressing into his personal space. Connor felt Jude's hand move to his cheek, tilting Connor's face down to accept the first timid press of Jude's lips against his mouth.

As they kissed, Connor's initial feeling was a horrible, misplaced sense of triumph. That he'd stolen Jude's first kiss. That he'd lodged himself in Jude's memories forever. That, for the rest of his life, Jude would be forced to think of him when he thought of his first kiss.

This triumph, twisting in his stomach, was replaced immediately by an unexpected sense of… _wanting_. He wanted to keep kissing Jude.

The sense of the closet as too small – as terrifyingly _intimate_ – intensified. The feeling of heat pressed in on him. And Connor drew Jude into another kiss, open-mouthed, instinctive.

This wasn't the chaste, awkward kissing of a dare. This was kissing that banished the rest of the world. Hot and thrilling and full of hunger.

Light and movement flooded the closet suddenly, as the door banged open.

The seven minutes were over and the spell was broken.

Jude shrank away from him, scurrying out of the closet with his head down. Connor, however, stood motionless for a long moment. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. Then, finally, he walked out of the closet.

He pasted a nonchalant smile on his face, shrugging off the barrage of lewd comments that greeted him. He made a point of looking everyone in the eye – everyone except Jude, that is.

* * *

In the first year that had followed their falling-out, Connor had hoped persistently that, one day, it would all work itself out. The ice between them would thaw naturally and they'd be friends again. With this hope in mind, Connor had positioned himself to be ready for when the thaw came.

In the classes he shared with Jude, Connor dawdled after the final bell, making sure to leave the classroom at the same time as Jude, just in case Jude chose to fall into step with him as they walked the corridor. (He never did.) Connor always looked over at Jude, smile ready, when Barbara or Timothy or another teacher said they should work in pairs, just in case Jude wanted to be his partner. (He never did.) Connor even sat alone at lunchtime, ignoring Bryce's wave to come over and sit with him, just in case Jude might materialize in the seat opposite him. (He never did.)

But, after Seven Minutes In Heaven, Connor stopped hoping things would go back to the way they had been. He stopped trying to catch Jude's eye. He stopped smiling at him. He began partnering with cute girls (a succession of them) when it was called for in class. He began sitting with Bryce and the other jocks at lunch.

He tried not to think about the kiss.


	3. Chapter 3

**_Ninth grade_**

For two months and two days, Connor was in love.

Punch-drunk type of love. Wake-up-happy type of love. Smile-through-his-dad's-lectures type of love. Have-a-good-time-at-parties-without-beer type of love.

Connor loved Maddie. And, he felt sure, he was going to love her _forever_.

He lived his life in dumb text messages and dumb phone calls and dumb dates at dumb locations (which weren't dumb when he was with Maddie). Everything else receded, until all that mattered were long, slow makeout sessions and the smile in Maddie's voice when she said his name. _Connor._ No one else could say his name like that. He heard the whole world in her voice when she said his name. _Connor._ In Maddie's soft, smiling voice, he was remade anew.

They were elected Homecoming King and Queen at the Freshman ball. Maddie stood blinking under too-bright lights (embarrassed, pleased), while Connor grabbed her hand and gripped it tight, smiling so hard it hurt.

For two months and two days, Connor was in love. For the rest of their relationship, he was in hell. A hell of his own creation. Because, after Homecoming, he started to get scared.

Whenever he saw Maddie talking to another guy, it drove him crazy. Maddie had always been well-liked, but suddenly, after Homecoming, she became _hot_. In the locker room, guys would needle him for details on their sex life. They weren't shy about suggesting she ditch Connor in favor of them, either. Maddie laughed it off – "those guys are idiots; don't _worry_ about it" – but all Connor could do was worry.

Parties were the worst. Maddie couldn't help it, but every time he left her alone, other guys would try to hit on her.

"Why are you talking to him?" Connor demanded.

Gradually, Maddie's responses changed from conciliatory ("I'm not, come on, let's go") to irritated ("we're just _talking_, Connor, _leave it_"), which only made Connor more combative.

At one more party in a succession of parties, Connor returned from the bathroom to see Maddie talking to yet another guy. His anger, so close to the surface these days, erupted. He crossed the room and the guy turned. It was—Jude.

Connor felt his anger congeal, turning cold in his veins.

"Hey, Connor," Maddie said. She was trying to smile, but Connor realized he couldn't hear it anymore – that magical way she said his name had disappeared.

"Hey, Connor," Jude echoed in a low voice.

Connor didn't say anything and Jude ducked his head.

"I gotta go," Jude mumbled and began to walk away.

"Why were you talking to him?" Connor said, not even waiting for Jude to be out of earshot.

"Um, he's my friend?"

"Um," Connor mimicked. "Try this: you have a crush on him!"

"…I _had_ a crush on him," said Maddie. "In, like, seventh grade."

"Well, we're not in middle school anymore. He's probably trying to get with you."

"Are you serious? Jude is gay. Or, like, queer or something. He told me. He's definitely not interested in me."

Her words should have mollified Connor, but they merely brought back the memory of a dark closet and the warm press of Jude's lips against his. His stomach twisted, as he tried to banish the queasy rush of feeling that the accompanied the memory.

"…I just want it to be the two of us," Connor said at last.

Maddie's expression softened. She reached for his hand and squeezed it.

"It is," she murmured, drawing him close. "Just you and me, baby."

But it wasn't.

It wasn't just Maddie and Connor.

It was Maddie and Connor and his paranoia and his fear that she'd leave him.

In the weeks that followed, he couldn't seem to stop himself. He looked at her phone when she left the room. When she didn't reply to a text within an hour, he called and called and called until she picked up.

Finally, one day, Maddie ended it.

"I'm tired, Connor," she said in a small voice. "I don't want to do this anymore."

As it turned out, _forever_ lasted four months.

* * *

It was Saturday night and Connor was at a party. This was such a constant in Connor's life that he wondered sometimes if he was on some kind of carousel, going round and round and round. Another Saturday night. Another party. No variation, just different brands of beer.

In the year since his first sip of beer at Chelsea's party, Connor had developed a taste for the stuff. He found that beer made everything better. No matter what else happened – his dad's tirades; his mom's silences; benched again; dumped again – there was always beer.

One Saturday night among many, Connor lounged on the floor of Maddie's pool house and drank. Everything was blurred soft at the edges – and getting blurrier.

"Let's play a game!" said Maddie.

Connor couldn't help but sit up a little straighter. His response to her voice was still Pavlovian. She could have said anything and he'd have agreed. _Let's chug tabasco!_ Okay, sure, Maddie. _Let's go walk in traffic!_ Great idea, Maddie. _Let's invade Canada!_ Absolutely, Maddie.

"Yeah," he said at once, and earned a painful smile from her.

Then her gaze went up over his head. He heard the sound of the sliding doors opening, the approach of someone new.

"Oh, hey," she said to someone behind him. "You're just in time. We were gonna play a game. You'll need a drink. Connor, find him a drink."

Connor twisted around and saw—

Jude.

Connor cut his eyes away from Jude immediately. He stood up and walked, not totally in a straight line, to the pool house's kitchenette. From the fridge, he grabbed another bottle of beer for himself and one for Jude, too.

Of course Maddie would invite Jude to her party. It was as inevitable as Maddie inviting Connor to her party, despite their still-painful breakup. Maddie was nice. Maddie didn't ditch her friends just because they were (like Jude) unpopular or (like Connor) colossal fuckups. Connor wished fervently that Maddie were less nice. If she were less nice, he wouldn't have to sit in a circle with his ex-girlfriend and his ex-best-friend and play games.

Connor walked back over to where Jude was now seated, cross-legged. He'd grown a little in the past year, Connor noticed. Despite his new height, however, an awkwardness clung to him, as if he hoped that by hunching his shoulders, he could make himself smaller again. Wordlessly, Connor handed Jude his beer, careful not to let their fingers touch. He deliberately took a seat far away from Jude.

"What game are we gonna play?" Connor asked, directing the question generally.

Beside him, Chelsea perked up. "Seven Minutes In Heaven?" she said.

Connor hated the way his stomach lurched at the suggestion. More than that, he hated the eager way his mind flooded with memories of kissing Jude.

"_Come on_," he said contemptuously. "That's so middle school."

The group was quiet for a moment. Then Maddie spoke up.

"How 'bout I've Never? You all know how that works, right?" She paused. "You say something you've never done, and everyone who _has_ done it has to drink."

"The penalty for lying is, like, death," Chelsea added and a couple of people laughed.

They rearranged themselves into an approximation of a circle.

"I guess I'll go first," Maddie said, looking around the circle.

She bit her lip, thinking hard, and Connor had a fleeting fear of all the things she might say that could directly or indirectly hurt him. This wasn't his first game of I've Never, and he'd seen things get messy before.

"I've never worn jeggings," she said at last.

"Weak!" Bryce yelled out, but Connor exhaled, relieved.

Chelsea rolled her eyes and took a swig of her beer. A couple of other jeggings-wearing girls did likewise.

Play passed to the boy sitting next to Maddie and things got gross quickly.

"I've never shaved my balls."

"Ew!" exclaimed Chelsea, "that doesn't even apply to everyone!"

The game continued.

"I've never been dumped."

The speaker was a girl named Annabel that Connor didn't know well, but his eyes went directly to Maddie. Maddie looked resolutely at the ground, while Connor took a long gulp of his beer.

It was Chelsea's turn next.

"I've never lost my virginity," she said, giving a virtuous little smile.

Connor had a flash of crawling under Maddie's pink comforter, feeling like it was the end of the world and the beginning all at once. He drank. The majority of the boys in the circle also drank ostentatiously, which Connor guessed was mostly bullshit.

Curious all of sudden, Connor's gaze strayed to Jude. He wasn't drinking. In fact, his expression was glazed; he looked far away, off in some daydreamed Judeland. Connor didn't exactly keep track of Jude, but he paid attention enough to know that Jude didn't have a girlfriend or—or—a boyfriend. Connor wondered who it was that sat next to Jude in the Judeland of his thoughts and dreams.

Play passed to Bryce and then another couple of football players, with predictable results.

"I've never had sex in public."

"I've never given head."

"I've never been cheated on."

("How would you even _know_, you dickweed?")

"Fine. I've never cheated on anyone."

Connor's head whipped around to look at Maddie and this time she looked him dead in the eye. She wasn't drinking. She didn't openly scowl at him – Maddie was nice, so nice – but the look of sad self-righteousness she wore was worse.

Play passed to one of Connor's baseball friends, a dudebro named Mitchell.

"I've never made out with someone of the same gender," he said.

"Wait," Chelsea said haughtily. "Gender or sex? There's a difference."

"Either," said Mitchell, rolling his eyes.

Connor watched as Maddie took a quick sip. She shrugged. "It was a dare," she said.

No one else drank. The lack of drinking was conspicuous. And Connor realized that everyone was looking at Jude.

Jude's expression was no longer faraway; he no longer looked untroubled and safe in Judeland. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes defiantly present. He knew what everyone was thinking. He knew that everyone was looking for a good story to tell on Monday morning.

Slowly, Jude brought his bottle to his lips and drank. He didn't just take a sip. He drank and drank – each slow gulp showing in his neck – until the bottle was empty. He let the empty bottle roll away across the floor. Then he stood up and walked away from the circle, out through the glass doors and into the night beyond.

Connor watched him go and then, quickly, cut his eyes away. He took a swig of his own beer, casually, as if he were just drinking from thirst. _The penalty for lying is, like, death_, he heard Chelsea say in his head.

The game went on and the statements got progressive stupider.

"I've never had sex with someone older."

("How old are we talking? 'Cause I've totally banged a Sophomore."

"No, dude. _MILFs_.")

Connor was barely paying attention. He was thinking about the expression on Jude's face, the way his eyes burned.

Connor stood up abruptly, incurring Chelsea's wrath – "hey, we're still playing!" – but he brushed her off, mumbling that he was going to the bathroom. He stumbled over to the pool house's sliding doors and Chelsea yelled out:

"There's a bathroom next to the kitchen!"

He ignored her and kept going, out into the cool night air.

It took his eyes a moment to adjust to the darkness. He didn't see Jude at first. Then he swam into focus. Jude was seated on a stone bench beside the swimming pool. His head was hung low and his eyes were closed. Cautiously, Connor approached.

"Hey, are you all right?" Connor asked.

Jude's head snapped up. When he recognized Connor, he seemed to relax, fractionally.

"Stupid," he muttered. "Chugged my beer to prove a point and now I feel lousy."

Slowly, as if worried he might startle Jude, Connor took a seat beside him on the bench. However, Jude didn't move away. He only slumped back down, his head tucked into his chest, his eyes closed.

Light spilled out through the glass doors of the pool house, bouncing off the surface of the pool. Connor could still see his friends inside, the game of I've Never continuing. The sight of them was rendered strange by the fact that he couldn't hear them, their laughter silenced. They were visible to him, but he knew that, by contrast, out here, in the darkness, he and Jude were invisible.

"That was brave, what you did back there," Connor said at last.

Tentatively, Connor reached out a hand and placed it against Jude's back. He felt Jude tense ever so slightly, but Jude didn't move. Connor's hand, where it touched Jude, seemed warm all of a sudden – tingly. He rubbed a slow circle into the small of Jude's back. His hand stilled, but he didn't remove it.

Connor wasn't fooling himself. He knew that on Monday morning they'd go right back to ignoring each other, but, in that moment, he felt like Jude was his friend again. He leaned his body against Jude and felt the warmth spread up through his arm. It was a better painkiller than beer.

When Jude finally spoke, it was in a low voice.

"You know, you could be brave, too," said Jude.

When Jude stood up, Connor's hand fell away awkwardly, the connection broken. Jude didn't look at him. He just began a slow walk away.


	4. Chapter 4

**_Tenth grade – a month ago_**

"Whose party is it?" Connor asked, as they rounded another dark street corner in Bryce's car.

"Don't know," said Bryce, turning the wheel carelessly. "Some loser kid. I think it's his birthday. We can just grab the free food and split."

"Cool," Connor said colorlessly. He closed his eyes and leaned his head against the passenger side window, feeling it shiver beneath his skull. He was still hungover from last night, and he felt extra woozy as a result of the six-pack of beer that he and Bryce had pounded before setting out.

Bryce's car lurched to a halt and Connor opened his eyes.

"Come on, man," Bryce yelled, already out of the car and advancing toward free food at whoever's party this happened to be.

Connor climbed out of the car and followed blindly. It wasn't until they reached the familiar porch and Connor saw the house number that he realized—

It was Jude's house.

They were at Jude's house. It was Jude's birthday – sweet sixteen – and he hadn't even remembered.

Connor felt paralyzed. He didn't know what to do. It was too late to suggest to Bryce another plan. The door was already opening. He could already see the familiar staircase, the dark wood and green walls. He could already see—

Jude.

Jude stood in the hallway, surrounded by his friends, laughing and making swatting gestures, like he was miming taking out a piñata.

"Hey, happy birthday!" Bryce called out, too loud, his voice hearty and false, so that every nerve in Connor's body cringed.

The smile slid off Jude's face as he turned to face Bryce, looked past him and locked eyes with Connor. His voice was flat and ironical when he said:

"Come on in."

* * *

Bryce was having an awesome time.

"This cheese?" he said to Connor, speaking with his mouth full. "Is, like, the best cheese ever."

Connor was not having an awesome time.

Regardless of the best-cheese-ever, being in Jude's house was freaking him out. He hadn't been in Jude's house in three years. There were things about it that had changed. It was no longer overrun with siblings (all away at college, Connor gathered from eavesdropping – Callie and Brandon on the East Coast, Mariana in NorCal, Jesus in Nevada). But so much about it was the same. Same beat-up TV in the living room, where he and Jude had played video games. Same tree in the backyard, which he and Jude had used as cover during water gun wars. Even the same smell filled the house – warm and lived-in, with notes of sawdust and eucalyptus.

Connor wandered away from Bryce and the cheese in the kitchen. He felt unsteady on his feet. He should say something to Jude. He knew that. But _what_…?

_Sorry I crashed your party. Sorry I forgot your birthday. Sorry I never stood up to my dad. Sorry I was a crappy friend. Sorry I'm not as brave as you. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry._

Connor realized grimly that he could tattoo the word "sorry" all over his body and it would never be enough for Jude. He wanted to leave the party, but there was another, perverse part of him that wanted to stay. It was the same perverse part of him that snuck looks at Jude in the corridors at school.

He was aware that it was not normal to hoard information about Jude, but he did it anyway. He hit up the few friends they still had in common – which really only meant Chelsea now; Maddie mostly avoided him these days – casually finding out about Jude's life. _Jude's just won a big writing competition. Jude's looking to graduate early. Jude's dating that guy from school choir. Jude just broke up with that guy from school choir._

Connor knew enough about Jude's life that he could almost pretend they were still friends. He could pretend, until he entered the living room and saw the way Jude looked at him – cold, suspicious; his eyebrows quirked and his smile sour.

The crowd in the living room was beginning to thin. People were leaving. The dance-y electro-pop on the iPod dock had been replaced with a mellower mix. The party was winding down. It seemed early to Connor, although maybe that was the point. This was a parentally-sanctioned party, with cake and fancy cheese and soft drinks, due to finish before midnight. By contrast, Connor usually went to illicit parties, which went all night and where the primary aim was to hook up and get hammered – not usually in that order.

Jude's party was, at least, free of parents. Although, Connor had a fleeting fear that perhaps his moms would arrive home at any moment. Connor had even less of an idea what he would say to Jude's moms than what he should say to Jude.

Connor took a few steps into the living room, leaning awkwardly against a bookshelf to mask the fact that he was hanging out alone. He caught sight of Maddie and Chelsea, huddled together on the window seat. Chelsea waved, half-heartedly; Maddie didn't react at all. Connor couldn't help but flush as he thought of the last time he'd seen Chelsea. They'd stayed late in the school science lab, working on a project together, and he'd tried to kiss her.

"Ohmygod, Connor, we can't do this!" Chelsea had exclaimed, pushing him away.

"Why not?" he'd asked, hearing the wheedling tone in his voice.

"Because of _Maddie_," she'd replied, emphatically.

Because of Maddie.

Because of Maddie was precisely why Connor had tried to kiss Chelsea. Because of Maddie. Because it would make Maddie jealous. Because it would hurt Maddie. Connor didn't even want to get back together with Maddie. Yet he couldn't stop himself from trying to hurt her still.

That afternoon, in the science lab with Chelsea, Connor had realized he couldn't remember the last time he kissed someone just because he actually wanted to kiss them. When he hooked up with girls these days, it was always some form of game-play.

"Let's play a game."

This time, it was Connor who said it – once, and then again, louder:

"Let's play a game!"

At Jude's party, the conversation in the living room stopped and everyone turned to look at him.

"Come on, Maddie," said Connor. "What game can we play?"

The words came out menacing, slightly slurred. Perhaps he was drunk, but he didn't feel drunk anymore.

"Um," said Maddie uncomfortably. "I don't know. Maybe Jude has Jenga?"

"No, I mean a real game."

Maddie blinked at him. He prompted her once more:

"Come on, Maddie, you like games."

"Um," she said at last. "We could play Blindfold."

Blindfold, as Maddie explained in a halting voice, was like human spin-the-bottle. Everyone got in a circle, and then one person stood in the middle, blindfolded. The host—

"I guess I'll be the host," Maddie said. "The host spins the blindfolded person around. Usually for, like, ten seconds. Then, whoever they stop in front of, that's the person they have to kiss."

Slowly – grumbling and embarrassed – the partygoers assembled into a circle. A girl that Connor didn't recognize pulled a silk scarf from her hair and offered it up as a blindfold. The scarf was navy blue and decorated with tiny smiley faces.

Bryce appeared at the living room door, cheese in hand. "What, are we doing some light S&amp;M?" he asked, laughing, and took his place in the circle.

Many of the people in the living room made a show of opting-out, either ignoring what was going on, or hovering outside of the circle. Connor remembered the way Chelsea had snapped "No bystanders!" at her party. It seemed so very long ago.

One of those hovering at the edges was Jude.

"So, uh," said Maddie, "Chelsea, why don't you go first?"

"Birthday boy should go first," Connor interrupted.

All eyes turned on Jude.

"Jude…?" Maddie asked tentatively.

Connor expected Jude to balk, to find an excuse to duck out. He waited for it—part of him wanted Jude to say, _no, fuck you._

However, Jude stepped forward, his jaw set. He allowed Maddie to wrap the smiley-faced blindfold over his eyes, tying the scarf at the back of his head.

"I'm gonna spin you now," Maddie said, still looking perturbed.

"Okay," said Jude. His voice wasn't small or cowed; it was resolute.

Maddie took Jude by the shoulders and began to spin him on the spot. As she did so, she counted: "One—two—three—"

When she reached ten, she let Jude stumble to a stop. He wavered slightly on the spot, his face flushed. He let out a few short, ragged breaths and Connor saw the way his teeth bit into his lip as he fought for balance. He was standing in front of—

Chelsea.

"Well, okay," Chelsea said loudly, rolling her eyes.

"You're not supposed to let him know it's you," Maddie said, frowning.

Chelsea gave Maddie the finger. She stepped forward and placed an ostentatious, smacking stage kiss on Jude's lips.

"Thanks, Chelsea," Jude said, smiling wryly as he reached up to pull off the blindfold.

"You're welcome," she said.

"Who's next? I guess we should go around the circle," said Maddie, looking around.

"No, birthday boy gets two turns," said Connor. "That's the rule."

"Says who?" asked Maddie, irritated.

"That's the rule," Connor said again.

He was aware that he sounded drunk and belligerent, but he didn't care. He waited again for Jude to protest. However, when Connor met Jude's eyes, which were half-obscured by the blindfold, he saw a cool determination there. This was Jude's _fuck-you_, after all – to play the game and not let it bother him. Jude reached up to pull the blindfold back down over his eyes.

This time, when Maddie spun Jude, the whole crowd, led by Connor, chanted, "One—two—three—four—"

They reached ten and Jude stumbled to a stop. He was standing in front of Connor.

Connor looked around the circle, waiting for someone to say something. No one did. Now that the chanting had finished, the room seemed too quiet. The only sound was the indie-pop song that floated out from the speakers, contrasting perversely with Connor's jangling nerves.

He stepped forward.

_I'm Connor_, he reminded himself, half-crazed. _Homecoming king. Popular. Well-liked. A jock. A straight jock. I'm Connor. I am not gay._

It was just a game. He could kiss Jude – in front of all of these people, he could kiss Jude – and not be gay.

Connor took another step forward, close enough that he could smell Jude (sawdust and eucalyptus, warmth in every breath), close enough that he could hear the gulp in his throat as he swallowed hard. Connor watched as Jude sucked his bottom lip into his mouth momentarily, wetting it. _An anxious gesture?_ Connor wondered. _Or an invite?_ Blindfolded, Jude was uniquely vulnerable, but Connor remembered the challenge in his eyes.

Connor reached out a hand and touched Jude's shoulder, his collarbone, until finally he moved to cup Jude's jaw with his palm. At his touch, Jude stirred.

In a voice so low it was barely audible, Connor spoke.

"It's not just the game," Connor whispered.

Jude opened his mouth, like he was about to say something in reply, but Connor leaned in and covered his lips in a kiss.

It was a real kiss. Connor kissed Jude and Jude kissed him back. Open-mouthed, instinctive. It was like a momentary spark that lit up the air and then, just as suddenly, it was extinguished.

Connor pulled away, already aware the moment had gone on for too long. As he pulled away, he pressed his thumb hard against the hollow of Jude's collarbone, hard enough for his thumbnail to leave an indent. He found himself hoping, insanely, that that indent could express every feeling that he could not.

Jude stumbled backward, pulled off his blindfold and let it drop to the floor. He set his chin high and walked out of the circle, out of the room. Blankly, Connor watched him leave. He could feel the heat of eyes – many eyes – boring into him. It felt like an age before Maddie's voice broke the silence.

"Um," said Maddie. "Who's next? Maybe Evie…? Do you want to just grab the blindfold—"

Connor tried to tune out the rest of the game.

Evie kissed Kyle. Steven kissed Caitlin. Bridget kissed Alicia, prompting much giggling. Tim kissed Georgina. Chelsea also kissed Georgina (more giggling). Chris kissed Jake (brief, dry, awkward). Bryce kissed Rachel. Ashley kissed Tyson.

Spin. Kiss. Spin. Kiss. Spin. Kiss.

Later in the game, Connor was blindfolded and spun. He had to kiss a girl named Krystal – a pretty girl, whose plump, strawberry-glossed lips he should have enjoyed – but his mind was full of white noise. White noise and Jude.

Finally, when everyone had had a turn, the circle began to disperse.

"Come on, man," said Bryce, slapping Connor on the back. "Let's bail."

"I gotta find my jacket," said Connor, even though he hadn't worn a jacket. "I'll catch you up."

Bryce shrugged and headed for the door without him. Chelsea and Maddie brushed past him, too, arm-in-arm and talking intently. Connor watched them go. Almost everyone seemed to have taken the end of the Blindfold game to mean the end of the party.

Connor did a circuit of the downstairs of the house, half-looking for his jacket, which he'd half-forgotten was fictional. Then he climbed the familiar staircase.

At the top of the stairs, Jude's bedroom door stood half-open. Connor slipped across the threshold, easing the door open another inch.

The room was dark and Jude stood in the shadows. He didn't look up; he didn't acknowledge Connor's presence at all. In fact, his back was turned to Connor. He was gazing down at his fish tank. Connor watched as he tapped the glass lightly. There was a flutter of movement, as the fish darted away, seeking freedom, but finding only another pane of glass.

"I wanted to tell you happy birthday," Connor said at last.

Jude's voice was quiet. "That's why you crashed my party?"

Connor didn't know what to say. He took a step into the room.

"I wanted to…"

Connor trailed off. He took another step closer to Jude.

"Jude, look at me."

Jude turned slowly. Connor had expected to see anger, irritation, even loathing in Jude's expression, but what he found was worse. It was the old Jude looking back at him, his expression open and hopeful. It was the same Jude who'd sat in this room with him and played video games. The Jude who'd smiled at him, big and unguarded. The Jude who'd been the best friend that Connor had ever had.

"Connor…" Jude breathed, and Connor heard the whole world in his voice.

Connor crossed the room and kissed Jude. Not because of a game. Not because an ulterior motive. Just because he really wanted to kiss Jude.


	5. Chapter 5

**_Tenth grade – a month ago_**

It wasn't a new beginning, but just more of the same.

This thought came to Connor as he glimpsed Jude across the school lawn on Monday.

He was just a fish in a tank, swimming to freedom and finding only another pane of glass.

Connor, carrying his lunch tray, imagined walking over to Jude. He imagined sitting down at his table and saying—something—anything. "_What's up with this meat? Is it supposed to be beef?_"

Connor sighed and looked away from Jude, taking a seat beside Bryce at his usual dudebro table.

Nothing had changed, he reminded himself. Connor wasn't who Jude wanted him to be. No matter what had happened at the party – no matter how Connor's skin prickled when he thought about kissing Jude – nothing had changed.

"Hey, what happened to you Saturday night, man?" asked Bryce, as if reading his mind. "Why'd you ditch me?"

Connor shrugged, shovelling a forkful of mystery meat into his mouth.

"I bet it was that game…" Bryce continued.

Connor tried not to react, although his throat had squeezed tight, making it hard for him to swallow. A rush accompanied the memory of kissing a blindfolded Jude. He felt the prickly heat of guilt and desire. He couldn't help but suspect the truth of the matter must be emblazoned across his face.

"…You hooked up with that Krystal girl, didn't you?"

* * *

Later that day, after school had let out, Connor drove aimlessly with Bryce in the passenger seat. They were debating where to go – the beach? the courts to shoot some hoops? the seedy corner store across town to see if they could buy some beer? – and none of these options appealed to Connor. He'd had a headache all day – a prickly, unpleasant feeling that felt lodged somewhere at the back of his skull.

"Hey, I got some stuff to do," Connor said suddenly.

"Whatever," Bryce said. "I'll tag along."

"No, I'll drop you off."

Bryce tried to protest once more, but Connor wasn't listening. He was already driving in the direction of Bryce's house, already thinking of his next destination. As he floored the gas, he felt his headache finally begin to lift.

* * *

At Jude's front door, Connor knocked. Lightly at first, and then again, harder.

As he waited for an answer, he had a sudden fear that one of Jude's moms would come to the door. They'd want to know what he was doing there. And what the hell could Connor say? _He_ didn't even know what he was doing there.

The realization spooked Connor. He turned and headed back down the path. However, he'd only taken a couple of steps when the door opened. He heard Jude's voice, low, uncertain.

"Hey…"

Connor turned. "Hey," he said.

"…What's going on?" Jude asked. There was just a hint of dark humor in his voice, as if he felt he might be the victim of a practical joke.

Connor gave a tortured shrug.

"There's no one else home, right?"

"Why," asked Jude, the humor in his voice sharpening, "did you come to see someone else?"

"No," Connor mumbled. "Can I come in?"

"I guess since you asked this time…" Jude said, and Connor remembered Jude's uncanny ability to make cutting comments sound impassive.

Jude let Connor into the hallway, but he didn't lead him through into the rest of the house. Whatever Connor had to say, Jude obviously felt that he could say it in the hallway.

For his part, Connor found that standing in the hallway brought up churning feelings of happy memories gone sour. He remembered one summer day in particular that he'd spent with Jude in this house. They'd sneaked grape popsicles from the freezer in garage and carried them through the house, dripping purple goo on the rug. Connor looked down at the rug beneath his feet, searching fruitlessly for remnants of purple.

"What are you doing here?" Jude asked plainly when Connor didn't say anything.

Connor lifted his head. He hesitated for a second. Then he darted forward and kissed Jude. It was a haphazard motion – clumsy – not at all how he'd imagined it. Jude moved his head at the last minute and Connor's kiss landed at the edge of his mouth. When Connor tried again, increasingly desperate, Jude squirmed out of his grasp completely.

"We can't do this," said Jude.

"We can," said Connor. "Don't pretend like you don't want to."

It was the only card Connor had left to play. He had no idea what was going on in Jude's head. He couldn't begin to understand Jude – this new Jude, who was, in some ways, still the boy he'd befriended all those years ago, but unfathomably different, too. He couldn't argue his way into Jude's life – he couldn't _make_ Jude forgive him – but he could play his trump card: he could wager on Jude's desire.

Connor was acutely away of the way Jude trembled beneath his touch; the way his eyes darkened when he looked at Connor; the way he'd let himself be stolen in all of those stolen kisses. Jude might not like the person Connor had become, but some part of him still _wanted_ Connor.

Connor tried again. He reached out a hand to Jude slowly. He palmed the curve of his shoulder and Jude stirred, but didn't push him away. He moved to cup Jude's face in his hand, leaning closer – close enough that his lips brushed against Jude's. And, just as he'd known he would, Jude shivered and gave in.

* * *

It became their pattern. Connor would kiss him and Jude would give in. They were not friends. They were not _anything_. But Connor would kiss him and Jude would give in.

It became their pattern. And, for Connor, it became another part of himself.

Connor was good at splitting up the parts of his life. Compartmentalizing, his mom's therapist would call it.

There was the part of him that smiled benignly when the guidance counsellor asked how he was doing. There was the part of him that laughed at Bryce's unfunny jokes; the part of him cowered in the face of his dad's icy rages; the part of him that kept quiet against the din of his mom's neuroses. And now, there was the part of him that kissed Jude.

It didn't mean anything. It was just another part of himself to lock away.

* * *

**_Tenth grade – present day_**

_You home yet?_ Connor texted Jude as he left baseball practice.

He didn't receive a reply, but he drove over to Jude's house anyway. Most days now, he went over to Jude's house. Those hours they spent together in the empty house felt suspended outside of space and time. They were hours when the rest of the world ceased to exist. And, when Connor went a couple of days without seeing Jude – without _kissing_ Jude – he felt the absence like a physical pain.

Connor parked outside of Jude's house and hurried to the front door. He didn't bother to knock. He just pushed open the door and stepped inside. He was already halfway to the staircase – mentally, he was already upstairs, burying his fingers in Jude's hair and kissing him breathless – when reality came rushing back in.

"Hey, Connor," Stef said amicably.

Connor stared at her, mute. Jude's mom was dressed in sweatpants and a plaid shirt, her hair in a messy ponytail. She was holding a plate scattered with crumbs. And she was waiting for him to speak.

"Hey," he managed at last.

"You forget Jude has those extra rehearsals all week?" she asked.

Connor jerked his head and Stef apparently interpreted it as a nod.

"I swear, you'd think those kids were preparing for a Broadway show, not a school concert. We had to buy him a green tux. _Buy_, not rent. And when is he ever gonna wear a green tux again? It's not like he'll get a ton of use out of it." Stef rolled her eyes and then relaxed into a smile. "But we're all really proud of him for having a solo."

Connor could only look at her wordlessly. School concert…? He had a vague idea that Jude was in the school choir, but he didn't know anything about a concert. He didn't know anything about extra rehearsals or green tuxes or—or —Jude's life. The realization hit Connor like a bucket of cold water. He didn't know anything about Jude's life.

"Jude'll be home in about twenty minutes," Stef continued. "You're welcome to wait. Are you hungry? Want some banana bread? Lena made some last night and I just ate two slices." Stef winced good-naturedly. "It's pretty amazing banana bread. If you eat some, that would really help me in covering my tracks. _Honey, I_ had _to eat the banana bread, because Connor was here_—"

"I'll wait upstairs," Connor blurted out.

The idea of sitting in the sunny kitchen, eating banana bread with Jude's mom, was close to unbearable. She'd want to know how he was (and he'd have to lie). She'd want to know why he and Jude were friends again (they _weren't_). Then Jude would come home and he'd have to join them. The whole thing would be a funhouse mirror version of how things used to be – a happy scene, all warped to hell.

Connor bolted up the stairs, away from Stef.

He ignored her call of, "Let me know if you change your mind—"

At the top of the stairs, Connor ducked into Jude's room. He shut the door, thankful to be left alone. When he was sure that Stef had not followed him upstairs, he eased into the room – into this sanctuary of Jude's.

Jude's bedroom was different now to how it had been when they were 12. During the long hours they'd spent in here over the past month, Connor had noticed that much. Jesus's stuff, which had once overflowed from every surface, was now pushed to the sides. With Jesus away at college, it was now decisively Jude's room. Jude's posters filled the walls, Jude's clothes spilled out of the closet door. Where Jesus's skateboard had once leaned, there were now piles of books, teetering precariously.

Connor had noticed the obvious changes to Jude's bedroom. But – as he began to roam the room, distractedly moving from one thing to the next – he realized he hadn't noticed half of it. He hadn't noticed the framed letter from an editor, accepting an essay of Jude's for publication (what essay…? and when had this happened…?). He hadn't noticed the art supplies that littered Jude's desk or the strange, abstract paintings that jostled for space on the walls.

He also hadn't noticed the cluster of photos tacked to the wall. They were predictable shots – Jude and his moms, Jude and his siblings, Jude and his friends – but what wasn't predictable was how Jude looked in them:

Jude smiling without reserve. Jude standing tall, shoulders unhunched. Jude looking supremely confident in a bright smear of red lipstick. Jude standing with his arm slung across the shoulders of… Liam? Jude's blurred expression of… love?

Connor realized that Jude's room was full of a life lived – a life lived without him.

Connor felt drained all of a sudden.

He dropped onto Jude's bed and stretched out, releasing the air from his lungs.

He closed his eyes and rolled over, so that he faced the wall. As he savored the easy comfort of a soft bed, he took a deep breath. He breathed in the soothing scent of the freshly-laundered pillowcase, the smell of Jude layered beneath.

When he opened his eyes, he caught sight of a spidery scrawl, partly obscured by the bedcovers. Someone had written something on the wall in ink. Connor pushed the covers aside, rubbing his thumb across the words. He recognized Jude's handwriting.

_I am not afraid._

Why had Jude written it?

Was it a reminder to himself? Some kind of mantra? Simply the truth…?

Connor had no idea. But he found he couldn't stop looking at those four simple words.

_I am not afraid._

Connor leaned closer, pushing aside the pillows, wondering if perhaps Jude had written more. But no. The wall was otherwise blank. However, Connor's eyes fell upon something else. When he'd rearranged the pillows, he'd uncovered a leather-bound notebook that had been hidden beneath them.

No, it wasn't a notebook.

It was a journal.

Connor picked it up, feeling its weight in his hands. Then he put it back down again.

He wasn't going to read it. Obviously, he wasn't going to read it. However much he wanted to get inside Jude's head, he wasn't going to _read his journal_. He wasn't that much of a scumbag.

Connor shoved the journal under the pillows where it belonged and lay back down. He closed his eyes. He realized he could still feel the hard lines of the journal's edges against the back of his head.

In truth, he rationalized, there was probably absolutely nothing about Connor in Jude's diary. Jude's journal, like this bedroom, would be an account of the life of someone Connor scarcely knew.

Perhaps if he just read a page or two…

Perhaps if he just flipped through it quickly…

Perhaps…

Connor reached under the pillows and his hand closed around the journal.

_I really need to stop lying to myself_, he thought grimly.

He was going to read it. Obviously, he was going to read it.

Connor sat up on the bed and opened Jude's journal to a page at random. He'd expected to find structured entries. _Today I did this, this and this_. That kind of thing. What he found instead were notes and scribbles and stream-of-consciousness passages, with no clear ending or beginning. Connor could feel the emotional clamor lift up off the silent pages.

He found his name and began to read greedily.

_Sometimes I see Connor through the crowd at school and I forget we're not actually friends. I actually forget. It falls straight out of my head. Sometimes I talk to him when I'm alone. Out loud, like a crazy person. I make up his answers and pretend they're real._

Connor flipped the page.

_Another afternoon with Connor and I feel like I'm sinking. Like I might not get out of these feelings alive. The 12-year-old in me is thrilled; the 16-year-old in me knows it needs to stop._

He flipped the page again.

_I don't think I believe in love at first sight. I think love grows. It's like a spindle. You start off with a core and then the thread wraps around it, tighter and tighter. Time passes and the thread wraps around you, feelings upon feelings, until you're wound up tight and you just… you love that person. With every part of your being._

Connor could barely process what he was reading.

_When I think about happiness, I think about sitting on the grass with Connor in the backyard. At this point, I'm not even sure it actually happened, but I can see the scene like it did. Eating popsicles. Laughing. Maybe aiming water guns at each other._

Connor raced on, through the journal. He flipped to another page and read:

_I love Connor. But I also know that he doesn't love me. Connor can't be honest about anything. Sometimes when I touch him, I feel like he could crumble. There's so much deceit there, he's like a cliff disintegrating into the ocean._

He was flicking through the book haphazardly now, reading entirely at random. Yet still he kept finding his name.

_I could make a list of everything I love about Connor, but it would be endless. Every stupid/banal/exquisite part of him. The freckle on his shoulder. The tiny split of skin where he cut himself shaving this morning. The strands of gold in his hair when the sun hits it. Every genetic quirk. Every mark made on his body by life. Every infinitesimal part of him._

His name. Over and over. Again and again. _Connor._ Two, three, four… ten times.

_Connor._

_Connor… Connor… Connor._

He was everywhere, in Jude's journal, in his thoughts…

And that other word, too.

_Love._

_I love Connor._

The creak of the floorboard outside of Jude's bedroom door gave Connor approximately two seconds warning before the door opened.

It was not enough time for him to hide the journal.

It was not enough time for him to compose himself.

It was only enough time for him to look up and meet Jude's gaze as he stepped inside. Connor heard the first flare of anger in Jude's voice as he said—

"What are you doing?"


	6. Chapter 6

**_Tenth grade – present day_**

Jude crossed the room and slapped the journal out of Connor's hands. It went flying, landing on the floor with a thud, but Jude didn't move to retrieve it. He only said again, his voice rising—

"_What are you doing?_"

Connor didn't reply.

"How much of it did you read?" Jude demanded.

Jude's voice was loud, thick with anger. His hands had curled reflexively into fists. Even though Connor was taller than him by several inches, with an athlete's build, he found himself shrinking away. Jude looked like he was going to take a swing at him.

"How much?" Jude yelled.

The sound of his own voice seemed to bring Jude back to himself. He took a step back. He flexed his hands and turned away from Connor.

From downstairs, there came a call. Stef's voice, muffled by distance: "Jude, honey, is everything all right?"

"Yeah, Mom, I'm fine," Jude called back. "Connor's just leaving."

"I'm not leaving," Connor said to Jude.

"…You wanna stay? You wanna rifle through my closet? Go through my internet files? What the hell else do you want?"

Jude had got enough of a grip on himself that he was no longer yelling, but anger still burned bright in his eyes. It made Connor balk.

"I want you to tell me…" Connor began and then trailed off.

Jude's voice was caustic. "_What_?"

Connor took a deep breath and tried again.

"I wanna know why I'm on every single page of your journal. I wanna know why you write about me like—like—"

He couldn't bring himself to say what he was thinking. _Like I'm the love of your life._

"It's not you!" Jude exploded.

Connor looked at him uncomprehendingly. Jude was silent for a long moment. When he began to speak, Connor could hear the strain in his voice as he worked to control his anger.

"I don't even know who you are anymore, Connor. I don't know if I ever did. You're just some popular guy with a tin heart. I don't care about you and you don't care about me. We just make out sometimes, because you're bored of your life and you know I can't say no to you."

As Jude spoke, he sounded calm – frighteningly calm. He wasn't trying to hurt Connor. He was just telling the truth.

Connor found that his own voice was very small-sounding when he replied.

"Then why did you write all those things—?"

"What's in that notebook, it's like… the version of you I have in my head," said Jude. "The person I thought you could be. The perfect Connor who I've loved since I was twelve fucking years old. You're the fairy story I tell myself. The Connor on those pages"—Jude looked at him scathingly—"it's not you."

* * *

"Connor…" Stef said as Connor brushed past her on his way out of the house, but he didn't stop.

He felt like he _couldn't_ stop, like his whole body was movement and if he was still, he might die.

He stumbled back into his car and accelerated haphazardly out of park. Full of crazed, kinetic energy, he hit the gas and drove. He turned on the car stereo, loud enough to try and drown out his thoughts. His hands bounced agitatedly against the steering wheel every time he hit a stop light. And every time the light turned green, he drove.

He drove and drove and drove. He drove aimlessly, without destination; out of the city and then back again. He drove to feel better and, when that didn't work, he just kept driving anyway.

Slowly, as minutes turned to hours, he felt the energy ebb out of him. That was worse. Amped up was better than hollowed out.

Finally, as the sun was setting, he found himself at the beach. He parked up, a few blocks from the school, and walked to the shoreline. Water lapped at his feet, but he scarcely noticed. The sun was sinking, the sky darkening, and the water creeping inland.

He sat down and buried his fingers in the cold, gritty texture of wet sand. As he watched the dark waves lick at his feet, he wondered how long it would take for the water to rise and cover his whole body.

* * *

Nothing changed.

Everything stayed exactly the same.

Two weeks passed, during which time Connor went to baseball practice. He sat with Bryce at lunch and ate the mystery meat. He endured his dad's lectures and his mom's silences. He looked at Jude across crowded corridors and Jude didn't meet his eye. Two weeks passed and everything stayed the same.

The realization that everything could be exactly as it had always been made Connor feel lightheaded. He sleepwalked through the days and even that didn't seem to make much difference. He wondered for how long he'd been sleepwalking through life.

The hours after school that he'd once spent with Jude, he now spent writing.

In slow, laborious cursive, only vaguely remembered from grade school, he filled page after page with neat, tortured writing. An emotional clamor on silent pages.

He typed most of his school assignments on his laptop, but for this, it felt right to write with a pen. His hand ached from the effort and he had to stop often to think. Most days, he did more thinking than writing. But he kept on writing. Page after page.

_Nothing changed unless you changed it_, Connor thought and kept writing.

* * *

"What's up with this meat?" Connor asked conversationally. "Is it supposed to be beef?"

He sat down across from Jude at his lunch table. It was the start of Sophomore lunch period and the school lawn was crowded and noisy, the outdoor tables around them filled with talking, laughing students. Connor lifted a forkful of mystery meat and continued speaking to Jude:

"Maybe it's from, like, a pig with rabies. Or a really messed-up chicken."

Jude said nothing.

"What do you think?" Connor prompted.

Jude picked up his lunch tray and stood up.

"If you move, I'll just follow you," said Connor. "I think we should eat lunch together."

Jude made a face, but he set his tray down.

"Why? When have you wanted to eat lunch with me, ever, in the last three years?"

Connor considered this for a moment.

"Every day," he said calmly. "Every day since you started here, I wanted to eat lunch with you."

Connor's simple declaration seemed to set Jude off balance.

"Well, I don't want to eat lunch with you," Jude said, frowning.

Jude picked up his tray again. He turned his body, sliding out of the trappings of the plastic picnic table. Seeing that he really was leaving, Connor began to panic. Was he actually going to chase Jude across the lunch room? Did he really think this could be as easy as sitting down at a different lunch table?

"Jude, I'm sorry—" he began.

"Too late," Jude said. "Apology not accepted."

"Jude, you have to give me five minutes—"

"I don't have to give you _anything_," Jude said, his voice low and angry.

"Jude, I wrote three letters and one of them's for you."

The words came out in a rush and Jude looked at him uncomprehendingly. But now that he'd started, Connor didn't feel like he could stop. It felt like a dam had broken and he could only keep talking, each word coming out a fraction too fast.

"I quit the baseball team this morning. I told my best friend to fuck off. I told him he's not my best friend, because—because you're my best friend. And I think I love you. Or something like love. Like a spindle and the feelings wrap around it. And I don't know if I'm gay. I don't know anything. I just know that I don't want to be who I've always been. I want to be the person I'm supposed to be. That person you write about in your journal. I want to be that person.

"So I wrote three letters. Saying those things. Saying all of that. Everything I never said, I finally put it down on paper. I mailed one of the letters to my dad this morning. He'll probably be really angry. Or he won't believe it. That's worse, maybe. He has this set idea of who I am and it's not even close to being true. I left one for my mom, too. She won't read more than a couple sentences of it. She avoids anything that she thinks will upset her. But I guess I had to write it for her anyway. Just in case she ever wants to get to know the real me."

Connor looked up at Jude, who was still standing, tray in hand. Jude's expression was glazed with shock. Connor reached into his backpack and pulled out a sheaf of pages, covered in laborious handwriting. This was the longest letter he'd written, filling six or seven pages.

Connor said, "I tried to write to you as well, but…"

He sent the pages skittering across the surface of the table, where they were lifted by the breeze.

"…I realized something…" Connor murmured as he watched the pages twist in the air and lift away from him.

Jude looked at Connor and then at the pages, some of which were on the ground, some of which had been blown further away. Connor watched impassively – strangely past caring – as a passing student stepped on one of the pages, and as another became lodged in the green tangle of the hedge. Jude put down his tray and made a jerky grab for some of the pages that remained on the table.

However, Connor reached out a hand to stop him.

"I realized something," Connor said clearly. "They're just words."

Connor stood up and moved so that he was standing in front of Jude. A group of their classmates jostled past them. The air was still thick with chatter; a blanket of muffled talk and laughter. Lunchtime at Anchor Beach was a fish tank and everyone could see them.

Connor leaned forward and pressed a light kiss to Jude's lips.

Drawing away, he looked at Jude intently and whispered, "I'm sorry. I'm really, really sorry. You have to forgive me. I need to earn your trust. I get that. But you have to forgive me. You can't just shut down when I screw up. You have to forgive me. You have to forgive—"

Jude cut him off with a kiss. It was open-mouthed, instinctive. A momentary spark that lit up the air.

"Okay," Jude said in a small voice, when their lips parted. "I can try."

* * *

Most of Connor's words got trodden underfoot or tangled in the foliage. Some even got blown out to sea. But Connor didn't care. It wasn't the words that mattered. It was the act of writing them, of tearing those parts of himself free.

Jude did rescue one sheet of his letter, though. When he read it, he laughed.

"What's funny?" Connor asked, frowning.

"You've written, _I want to eat popsicles with you forever._"

"So?" Connor said, shrugging. "I do. Don't you remember that day? It was a really hot day. July or August. Your moms said we'd been playing video games too long. They forced us to go outside. So we had a water fight and ate popsicles. Don't you remember?"

Jude shook his head. "I don't know," he said, smiling shyly. "Maybe. It was a long time ago."

Weeks later, when Connor was over at Jude's house – dinner with the moms; Jude and Connor holding hands under the kitchen table – Connor saw a new painting of Jude's. It was abstract, in sunset shades of yellow and red and orange. And, pasted at its center, Jude had cut out a single sentence from Connor's letter.

_I want to eat popsicles with you forever._

**The end.**


End file.
